In our lives there will always be hopes and fears popping in and out of our heads. Some nights they dance about as I try to shut my eyes and scatter about the room as I toss and turn, trying to settle my mind. When I wake up I’m in a daze before they come rushing back.

I try to wake up feeling excited versus anxious, about the things to come. I try not to think of the ever-growing list of things I need to do for the day and take my time getting ready. Still by the time I realize I’m running behind schedule, these hopes and fears are there waiting by the door. I try to keep them locked up but they must have figured out how to climb through the window.

No matter. I can always stick my headphones in and ignore them. The music will drown them out…although I do like the hopes very much, so I let them dance while I walk to the rhythm of the morning. They’re warm like the sun and brush gently across my skin. They make my heart pound heavily, but the heaviness is nice…it lets me know that I’m still alive and as I get lost in my hopes I pull out my phone and suddenly fear sinks its teeth into me.

Being late, not having things done, forgetting something back at home…all of the little fears that poke and pick at me throughout the day. Sometimes it’s easy to ignore them and other times I can’t. I think about kicking them, or stomping on them…but at the same time being so carefree isn’t always a good thing. Things need to get done. I have places I need to go, people I need to meet, work I need to finish…and the ever-growing list of little fears pushes me to get them done. My heart races when the fears start to slither about. They slip between my ankles, wrap around my throat…they nearly suffocate me…and yet I’m still alive.

My hopes tug at me and my fears start to pull back. Both clawing at my arms and legs and face. I can’t seem to decide which way to go, so I sit in the grey…and I wait. I procrastinate. I pretend everything is nothing, and that nothing is everything. It’s a numb place to be, and very boring…there’s no music or colour. There are no hopes and no fears…so I let them back in and let the battle begin, until night-time comes again and I begin to dream.

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Do we punish the ones who have hurt them? Make them pay for their crimes. Show them what broken really looks like.

Do we try to fix them or do we leave them shattered like broken glass. Millions of a whole sparkling in the dirt.

It is hard to love a broken thing. When things break we replace them…it’s easier than taking the time to mend them. Easier to forget about what is broken. Who is broken. No one wants to be reminded of the things that are broken…the people they have broken.

I saw her broken. She laid there, like glass. Silent…though silence was never something she longed for. I couldn’t touch her. She was sharp. Her shards laid at my feet. I didn’t break her, but I cannot fix her. I don’t know how. I want to. I want what once was. This bond between us, shatter by those who hurt her. Beat her down into the dirt. Shoved their words into her like daggers. Tore apart what was left of her. Somehow she rose. A million pieces. She rose up, still shattered and she glistened in the sun. I couldn’t fix her. I don’t know if she even wanted to be fixed. Perhaps she likes being broken? Perhaps the glass makes her enemies tremble with fear. She is strong, even though she is shattered. Her strength is the greatest sword ever built.

Yesterday I received my final analysis back from my English T.A. and for some strange reason I went back to my room without even looking at it, and then forgot it existed until this morning before I went to write a test for another class. I picked it up and said, “I’m not going to look just yet…I’ll wait till after class so that this doesn’t mess up my mojo.”

When I returned with breakfast, my bag and cellphone in hand I remembered that I wanted to see what I got on my analysis. I put everything down, finished texting back my dad (we talk everyday), and searched for my analysis, which I placed on my tiny bookshelf.

I looked at each page. There were no comments, simply pink checkmarks every couple of lines. I wasn’t sure if I should feel excited, or nervous. I started to briefly read over what it was I had written, but it made me feel uneasy.

Finally I reached the last page. Following a series of check marks was a pink 80. I was beaming. I texted my dad to tell him the news. I shared it with those I loved. I was proud. I am proud.

For years, I had struggled with writing more academic pieces, such as essays (especially the dreadful five paragraph ones). In the 11th grade I decided that I was going to get better at this for of writing. I no longer wanted to get between 65% and 70% on my English assignments. I wanted to get 80% and above. By grade 12 I was getting 84% on some of my assignments and I started of my Creative Writing course with 96%. I felt amazing. I’d reached my goal. Suddenly before second semester, my parents and school counsellor recommended that I retake the grade 12 English that I had done in summer school (I liked to take a course ahead of time in order to not end up with English, Math and Science all at once…it always happened to me in grades 9 and 10). in order to be more competitive for university. I was reluctant but I did.

My teacher was great, he ran our schools writing club, which I was apart of and he also taught my younger sister earlier on in the year. He was the toughest teacher in the English department, and the scariest…but I didn’t think so. He was actually very nice, and he helped me improve on many things throughout the year. Unfortunately, though I had started his class getting 80%, my marks became 60%. I was heartbroken. For the first time in that year I was so frustrated and disappointed with my marks that I had to fight back tears in class. I nearly thought about leaving. I’d gotten 3 assignments back in a row, all 65% or lower. It made me feel like throwing up. I felt hopeless. I wasted my time retaking a course that I didn’t need to redo and I was doing worse than before. I finished the class off with 70%, which was lower than the mark I’d gotten in summer school. I was so angry that I wasn’t sure of what I should do. I never wanted to go through that again but I learned that sometimes when we work hard, we don’t always get the results we want but what doing well in university English has taught me, is that my teacher from high school pushed us so that we would be ready for university English assignments and that if we try hard and it doesn’t work the first time, you just need to try something different.

Each assignment I do, if my professors or T.A’s make any comments I will take them and improve upon what they said for future assigned work.

I really wanted to share this with you all because though I have always loved reading and writing, and though English is my favourite class, throughout my elementary and high school careers, my teachers had discouraged me from pursuing English entirely. One teacher even wrote that they didn’t believe I had any interest in the subject of English, while my parents and I knew that I had been writing novels and stories for years and had been assisting my friends with their English homework. I proved that teacher wrong a year later when I was again put into their English class. I think maybe they just didn’t like me because I also had them for Art and I’m always getting 84% to like 90% in Art and this teacher gave me a 60%. Plus when I proved them wrong about the English thing, they gave me a 65% and wrote on a book mark they made me, “Your love for storytelling brings a unique (something or other) to your writing.”

I try to be optimistic so when people try to discourage me I end up trying harder.

The bad experiences that I had with my teachers in the past has also showed me what not to do when I myself become a teacher. I want to be an encourager of talent, a trusted person that my students can go to when they need someone to listen, and someone who allows them to let their dreams take flight.

Like this:

“Listen to the mustn’ts, child. Listen to the don’ts. Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me… Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”